


One Million Minutes

by tundraeternal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tundraeternal/pseuds/tundraeternal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, the story of how Sherlock comes back to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Million Minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [O_Deanna](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=O_Deanna), [Squeaky_the_Pin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Squeaky_the_Pin).



Sherlock stands on the pavement, fiddling with the hood of his shabby duffel coat, staring through the fine mist at the door of the building across the road. It's been nearly two years. Twenty three months, to be exact. 694 days. 16,666 hours, or if you really want precision, 999,983 minutes and 13 seconds. Since John saw him hit the ground in front of Bart's. Or rather, believed he saw it. Which for 999,983 minutes (and, now, 22 seconds) has amounted to the same thing. But not any longer. Sherlock Holmes is about to come back from the dead.

He suspects that this sudden revelation may cause John some rather painful cognitive dissonance. It's why he has to be sure to do this exactly the right way.

A quick calculation--lights are on, blinds are open, plus the glow from the telly is flickering vaguely. John is home, and alone. Sherlock smiles to himself and crosses the road.

*********

John is staring at the wall above the television while Adrian Chiles natters inanely on the screen. He considers falling asleep, just to relieve the boredom, but he's not so desperate yet that nightmares are preferable company. An image flashes across his mind--himself, shooting wildly at the wall, bullet holes forming a macabre smiley face. He snorts as he imagines his landlord's reaction. The man is not quite so forgiving as Mrs. Hudson. Anyway, he's not sure even bullets could add excitement to the drab beige walls of the tiny bedsit.

For a moment he indulges in the memory of 221B. Mess scattered all around, and scientific experiments left half-finished in the kitchen. The best days of his life, though he'd never have admitted it at the time. Noise and excitement and adrenaline. Sherlock. He appreciates the ache in his chest that comes with the memory, as much as it hurts. It makes him feel human again. Not just an empty shell that used to be a man.

Giving in to the fantasy, he shuts his eyes and pictures Sherlock at his best: silhouetted against the window and pouring emotion into his violin. It's John's favorite memory. All that mania and restlessness focused into a pure stream of music. He was so beautiful when he played. John's heart skips a beat just thinking of it. He wonders, as always, why he never fully realized what Sherlock meant to him. Why he never managed to say it aloud, why he was too embarrassed to admit it even to himself. Before it was too late. Would things have been different if he had? He feels his throat closing and the pain becomes too much to bear. He steels his mind against it, opens his eyes, and allows the colorlessness of reality in again. Drab walls. Drab carpet. Drab self.

It's no use dwelling on it, he thinks. This is life now. He's begun to accept it for what it is. He should count himself lucky, really. At least he'd had those few wonderful months. And now it's time to return to a staid and mundane existence, just the same as the millions of other people on the planet who had never even met Sherlock Holmes.

He's back to staring at nothing, and is trying to decide whether he's hungry enough to bother eating, when he hears the doorknob turning behind him. His heart pounds wildly for a moment as he gauges the distance between his chair and the drawer that holds his gun. He'll never make it if the intruder is armed.

Well, this is different, he thinks. He grabs his cane, wishing it were a bit more solid than just aluminium, and stands to face his fate.

*********

A stranger in a duffel coat slides through the door. Pulls back the hood. John sees first a shock of dark hair. His breath catches. The stranger looks up and they lock eyes. John sinks slowly back into his chair and puts his head in his hands. "I'm dead. I must be. I've had a stroke, and I'm dead. Or I'm dreaming. Yes, right. Dreams. Wish fulfillment dream. Better than a nightmare, any rate. Lucid dreaming. Okay. Progress, i guess. Must remember to tell Ella when i wake up."

"John."

"Yeah okay, lucid dreaming. Take charge of the situation." John looks up again. Those eyes. He thought he'd remembered everything perfectly, but surely, surely they're even more intense than they were, burning through his memory. "Sherlock. How nice-" His voice breaks and he clears his throat, "How nice to see you. Do come in."

"John. Look at me. You're not dreaming, John."

"Well of course i'm bloody dreaming! You're dead!"

"Clearly not, as the evidence of your own eyes suggests."

"I saw you fall from a building for Christ's sake. I saw you hit- I saw you hit the pavement." John's eyes are welling up, and his breath is short. Maybe this is just another nightmare after all.

"You saw what i wanted you to see. THINK, John. Shut your eyes and remember. Did you actually see me hit the pavement?"

"I saw you hit- no. No, I saw you fall. I saw you jump off a bloody building, and then the cyclist, and there were people all around.... But you were DEAD. I felt your pulse and you were DEAD and your BLOOD was-" He stops himself before he can get hysterical. As he takes a deep breath, he realizes something didn't sound quite right just then. "Wait, what you WANTED me to see? You wanted me to see you dead." Definitely a nightmare. He pinches himself discreetly to try to wake up.

"You're awake already, John, do try to keep up. You saw what i needed you to see. I needed to die, and in order to do so without actually dying, I needed you to see me die. Do you see now?"

Sherlock's eyes are bright, and he's beginning to twitch the way he does when he's on a trail. The familiar sight fills John's heart to bursting and makes him unbearably sad.

"Why, Sherlock? Just tell me why."

"Because they would have killed you!"

Not what John was expecting, and he blinks, confused. "Who would have killed me?"

"Not just you, but Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade! Molly was the only one he forgot about, because she didn't think she counted, which turned out perfectly as she was in just the right position to help." Sherlock breaks off as he catches John's baffled expression. "Yes, alright, clearly it's been too long since I've had any proper explaining to do. I'm out of practice." He removes his coat and hangs it on the back of the door, then stands with his hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world as though he's about to start a lecture. John, knowing Sherlock, suspects that he is.

"Firstly, Moriarty knew that the two of us couldn't both go on living, above-genius level intellects working at completely opposite purposes. One of us was bound to destroy the other, in the end. He decided to arrange matters so that i would be the one to die. He very cleverly set about leading me down a path of ruin that would end in my taking my own life, leaving his hands clean. Of course, as in any game of chess, the aim is to think one step ahead of your opponent. What made it more delightfully complicated was that i had to hide how i was ahead of him, therefore assuring that events would run the course that he directed, which i had reasoned out and expected to counter. Are you following, John?" He glances across the other man's face, but doesn't bother to stop for an answer to his question.

"The trouble was his network. I work alone, while he had hundreds, even thousands of employees and spies, ready to do his bidding the moment he jerked their particular threads in his web. Ultimately, i decided the best way to thwart him would be for him to achieve his goal, my death. After that had been accomplished, i would be free to work without his interference. Unfortunately, it seems i miscalculated slightly."

Sherlock breaks off to draw a deep breath, then another. He's gazing up at the ceiling, and John is astonished to see a blush creeping across Sherlock's pale cheeks.

"Yes, well, I may have overestimated my own sociopathic tendencies. My plan went into effect perfectly, but Moriarty found i had a weakness. Three weaknesses, really, which was something i had never expected in myself. To care about three people. To hold their lives, your life, in higher regard than my own..." he trails off, looking thoughtful, even sad. Suddenly his eyes flash back to John's. "He had assassins trained on you, John. One on each of you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If i hadn't died that day, it would have meant all your lives, and the only way they would believe me dead is if you believed me dead. I'm sorry, John. I am so truly sorry. Please believe i only had your welfare at heart."

Sherlock takes a step towards John, then stills, biting his lips, as if to keep himself from saying any more. His eyes search John's face, certain that the rational response will be acceptance and gratitude, and yet unsure how rational John will be.

For a moment, John is furious. He stands and walks towards Sherlock, fists clenched, knuckles white. Three steps in, it hits him, and he nearly stumbles in his haste to cross the room.

"Oh my god, you're alive. You're alive. You complete wanker, you know it nearly killed me watching you die? And you're here, it's really you, you're alive." He's dropped his cane, and is grabbing onto Sherlock, tugging the lapels of his jacket, gripping his arms, his shoulders, anything to stay in contact, to prove it's real, not just another nightmare, not just another fantasy. Sherlock stands perfectly still beneath the onslaught, hands behind his back, smiling down at John like Father Christmas.

John is reeling with so many emotions, he can't even name them all, but chief among them is the way his heart is lifting, as though a rock had been rolled off it, rising right out of his chest and into his mouth, and he has to do something, say something, to leap into the air or shout aloud. But there's only one thing he can think of doing, and so he tells himself, 'What the hell, if not now, then when?' and, reaching a hand into Sherlock's hair, kisses him fully on the mouth.

It only lasts a moment before John's natural reserve kicks in and he finds himself a foot away from Sherlock, looking anywhere and everywhere and stuttering what he thinks is meant to be an apology. Just in case.

Sherlock grabs his wrists before he can back away. "John. I'm happy to see you too."

He's still smiling, grinning even, and John lets out all his breath at once. Their eyes meet once more; Sherlock's are dancing with glee and John is hypnotized. He only realizes he's being drawn closer when he feels warm breath on his face, and he shuts his eyes and leans in.

He isn't sure if what just happened was a kiss, maybe not a proper kiss, just a bump of lips, really, easy to explain away as the heat of the moment, but there's no mistaking it this time. The heat of the moment is fading and an entirely different kind of heat is settling, warm and clutching in John's stomach as Sherlock shifts his stance and opens his mouth, just a bit. Suddenly John can feel their tongues meeting, oh god Sherlock's tongue is in his mouth, and it's been ages since John's kissed anyone, and how did Sherlock get so bloody GOOD at this? He feels himself moan softly before he can stop it.

Suddenly, as though a dam has broken and years of emotions are flooding though, the kiss becomes hot and hungry, a fury of teeth and lips and tongues. John's hands are fisted in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's are everywhere. Up beneath John's jumper and scraping nails across his back through the thin cotton of his shirt, then gripping his hips so hard that John's sure he'll have bruises, but he doesn't care, it all feels so good.

He's never felt this way before. Not with any woman he's ever been with, not even in his dirtiest most wonderful fantasies. It's like a perfect storm, the combination of adrenaline, arousal, and the unimaginable feeling of being granted a second chance. It's more potent than a drug, and within seconds it's completely stripped John of every inhibition he's ever had. He's had enough of regrets. He never wants to regret anything again.

Sherlock's mouth moves away as he kisses his way down John's throat to nip at the edge of his collarbone. John strips off Sherlock's jacket and, hands shaking with need, begins to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He pushes it back from Sherlock's shoulders and runs his hands down soft, white skin. Off comes John's jumper, and Sherlock, always one to go straight to the point, undoes John's flies and pushes his jeans down.

"No shorts?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Hate doing laundry."

John laughs as he stumbles on the fabric around his ankles, and he kicks clear and moves back against the wall for support, pulling Sherlock with him until the taller man is pressed against him, hands to either side of John's face, pinning him with his long, lithe body, and John thinks he may come just at the thought of it. He can feel Sherlock's erection pressing through his trousers, and he reaches a hand down to run his palm along the bulge.

Sherlock gasps, and bucks involuntarily at John's touch, his eyes going black with the sensation as he pulls back slightly to study John's face.

A snatch of conversation springs unbidden to John's mind. "Sex doesn't alarm me." "How would you know?" With all of Mycroft's and Sherlock's jabs at one another, it has never before occurred to John that this one might have been true. He goes still and puts his hands at Sherlock's waist.

"Are you alright? We don't have to go any further, if you don't want."

Please, god, John thinks. Any god that ever existed. We are so close to this. Please don't let him say no.

"I never realized. John, sexual contact is experienced by hundreds of thousands of people during every minute of every day. I knew it would have to be enjoyable, of course. It's the primary motivation behind a huge percentage of human action. As a scientist I studied the matter in depth, and the results of my experimentation ranged from unpleasant to mildly physically affecting, but this... John, you- Why is this so different? How can you make me feel this way?"

John is laughing helplessly now, and he rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Of course Sherlock would have made sexual experiments. Literal experiments, not the way normal people say they experimented with sex in Uni.

"God i've missed you, you idiot. You've got a brain the size of a planet, not to mention an even bigger ego, and you can't figure out that love makes things different?" He never meant to say it this way, but it's out now and he doesn't regret it. No more regrets. He softly kisses Sherlock's chest to show that he means it.

"You mean, the emotion known as love has an actual physiological effect on sexual pleasure? Interesting! It's something i never could have controlled for, never having been able to simulate love, or the chemical reaction that people call love, anyway-" he's forced to stop speaking as John kisses him again. His physiological responses to this are sufficiently distracting to break his train of thought. He's suddenly reminded that his erection has not subsided. If anything, it seems painful to be constricted against his trousers as he is. He realizes that he never answered John's question.

"Please," he whispers against John's hair, "I don't want to stop. Make me feel."

His words have an immediate effect on John's libido, and within seconds, Sherlock's trousers and pants have joined the rest of the clothes on the floor, and their positions are reversed, John pushing Sherlock back against the wall.

Kissing and groping, skin to skin, god there's so much skin, John pushes his erection against Sherlock's and grabs them both together in his fist. He begins to stroke softly along the shafts, and Sherlock groans and throws back his head, breathing heavily. John licks lightly along his throat, lovely and long and exposed, and turns his attention downwards, where his strokes become hotter and more frantic, slicking along their lengths, then softly rubbing Sherlock's tip with his thumb, over and over, as Sherlock gasps and jerks at his touch.

"Please, John, please. Don't stop. Please. Don't stop." Sherlock's whispering it like a mantra, chanting with the rhythm of John's pumping fist.

John is so close, and Sherlock must be too, from the breathlessness of his pleas. John leans up to bite Sherlock's ear, lightly. "What don't you want me to stop, Sherlock?" He growls, low in his throat.

"Don't stop touching me, John. It feels so good, oh god, so good."

"What do you want me to do to you Sherlock? Do you want me to make you come?"

Sherlock gives an involuntary cry and bites his lip, driving John absolutely mad.

"Tell me how it feels, Sherlock. Tell me to make you come."

"John, fuck, John. It feels like you're overstimulating every nerve ending in my body. It feels like electrodes are attached to every inch of my skin, and they're humming with electricity each time you move against me. It feels, oh god, it feels like music."

John's free hand grabs Sherlock's arse and pulls him, close, closer, as though their sweat could dissolve the skin between them and allow them to become one person. Sherlock's nails leave imprints on John's back.

"Make me orgasm, John. I want to come in your hands."

His words are the catalyst, and John can't last any longer. He holds onto Sherlock for dear life as the waves of pleasure threaten to knock him off his feet. A second later, Sherlock is coming too, gasping and whimpering as they cling to one another, John's hand still trapped between them and softly moving until they're both completely spent.

When they've begun to breathe again, and he thinks his legs will hold him, he reaches down for his cast off shirt and wipes them both clean as best he can.

Sherlock stands, quiet, still leaning against the wall, watching John's every move. His reaches out, and his fingers linger on John's shoulder, waiting as he cleans them off.

"John."

"Sherlock?"

"All of the available data leads me to the conclusion that i love you."

John tries to stay composed but can't make it; he's grinning like an idiot all over his face. Every piece of his fractured reality is fitted back into place. He's whole again. The world has colors he didn't even know existed.

"I know you do. And don't you dare forget it!"

With a grace and suppleness John that leaves John breathless, Sherlock has leapt up and is dressing again.

"Forget! Forget! I nearly forgot. John, get dressed, we have to go out. I've got one more of Moriarty's spiders to trap. With your help we should have it done by this evening. Bring your gun, we may need it; he's probably the most dangerous man alive." Sherlock pulls his coat on and looks at John, struggling in his haste to tie his shoelaces.

"John, hurry up. Are you ready?"

He meets Sherlock's eyes and smiles. "God, yes!"

*********

They hold hands as they run through the alley. Up the fire escape, and into the abandoned building. Sherlock kisses John quickly when they stop to let their eyes adjust to the dark. If he'd known, if he could have guessed, what it would be like to come home after his death, would he have been able to stay away so long? Irrelevant. He'd had a job to do, and now it's nearly done. John is back at his side, where he belongs. One million minutes apart. And now together again, for the rest of their lives.


End file.
